


Rowena And John: A Love Story

by jessschlinky



Category: Supernatural
Genre: But they're so cute!, Damn my imagination, Elf on the shelf has nothing on Rowena on John Cena, F/M, Friendship, I actually wrote this thing, I blame Facebook, Let the RoCena Ship Sail!, Odd, RoCena, Yes I really made up a Rowena/John Cena ship, wth??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-18 01:36:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13089675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessschlinky/pseuds/jessschlinky
Summary: Based on a funny picture I saw on a Destiel Facebook page.  The crack pairing no one asked for but apparently several people (myself included) needed.In hiding and unable to use her magic for fear of discovery by Lucifer or his loyal demons, Rowena MacLeod finds herself making a living reading palms and tarot cards on the streets of some no-name town in Florida.  She is barely scraping a living; stuck in a disgusting flat with day old bread and eggs to sustain her.  Her once lovely red hair is dyed a mousy brown, and she hasn't a friend in the world.  Until fate steps in, delivering her a companion in the form of famous wrestler, John Cena.This is the story of their unlikely friendship, and the greatest happiness of Rowena's very long life.





	Rowena And John: A Love Story

Rowena MacLeod was, in a word, miserable. Once a great and powerful witch of influence, she now found herself abandoned, hidden away from the whole of the world in one of its worst backwaters – Florida. Her stomach growled with hunger, her once fine clothes threadbare. She walked out of the store with her meager groceries, clutching them protectively to her chest as she hurriedly made her way to the flop house flat she currently called her own.

Ever since Lucifer had killed her (happily, her insurance spell had kicked in and revived her a day or so later) she had been forced to lay low, unable to use her magic for even the most tedious of tasks. She was aware that demons were on her tail – afraid so much she had dyed her once luxurious red hair to a mousy brown. She made her living reading palms, charming passing tourist and elderly residents with her exotic accent and accurate readings making her very popular. Even so, she barely made enough for rent and utilities. She had just enough left over after paying her horrible bills to buy the makings for turkey sandwiches and eggs. Rowena hated turkey sandwiches and eggs, but it was better than the constant hunger that seemed to follow her. Already a petite and slender woman, she had lost at least a stone over the last few months.

She was just turning the corner near her flat, when a huge man ran into her. She cried out, falling backwards, her ridiculous groceries falling between them. The man looked horrified, his eyes wide and hands reaching down to help her up.

“I am so sorry,” he said, helping her easily to her feet. He popped the earbuds out of his ears, looking genuinely remorseful. “I was listening to my music and not paying attention. Are you hurt?”

“Well, my backside is a bit sore, but my pride is what's really injured,” she replied, trying to be polite while she seethed inside. She caught side of her single bag of groceries, her heart dropping into the endless pit that was her stomach. “Oh no,” she muttered, stepping away to pick up the bag. Her eggs were completely crushed, running out of their carton and leaking all over the equally crushed bread. Only the cheese and turkey were untouched.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, miss,” the tall, muscular man said, sounding very upset. “I ruined your groceries! Please, let me replace them.”

Rowena sniffed, throwing out the eggs and bread. “I don't need charity,” she snipped, even as her belly wailed in hunger.

“Not charity, miss. An apology. I won't be able to sleep if I don't replace what I ruined. Please, let me?” he asked, his eyes wide and ever so sincere. He reminded her a bit of Samuel – not an entirely bad thing. “My name is John,” he said, offering his hand.

She looked at the hand – callused and strong; a man unafraid of hard work it seemed. “Rowena,” she replied, taking his hand and shaking it lightly. “You may replace my groceries. Come along then, John,” she ordered imperiously, turning on her heel to go back to the store. John followed and caught up, smiling when she glanced at him.

“You have a wonderful accent. Scottish?” he asked.

Rowena gave him an impressed look. “Most people assume Irish, but yes, I am originally from Scotland. I've lived in America for sometime, however.”

“I love Scotland,” John said happily. He seemed like a genuinely kind – and huge – man. “I went there some years ago on tour. It's lovely country.”

“Tour?” she asked, her interest peaked.

John actually flushed. “Um, yeah. I, uh, I'm a professional wrestler. Acted a bit, rapped a bit, did a reality TV show and all.”

Rowena stopped, giving him a critical eye. “Oh yes,” she said, finally recognizing him. “I've seen you on posters and tele. I don't follow wrestling so you will forgive my ignorance.”

John smiled. “Only if you forgive me for running you over and squishing your food.”

Rowena smiled despite herself, taking his offered arm. For the first time in months, things were looking up for Rowena MacLeod.

* * *

John had not been satisfied merely replacing her ruined food. He had, in fact, ended up buying her enough groceries to last her a month. Rowena was surprised – pleasantly so – and found herself genuinely enjoying his company. When he offered; well, demanded, to give her a ride to her home in his nice sports car (it had been parked just down the road from the store, as it turns out) to her home and then carry up her groceries, she had accepted. John had chatted and told funny stories and made Rowena laugh. Really, truly laugh. She couldn't remember the last time a man made her laugh. She had been horribly embarrassed when he entered her apartment. It was clean and well kept, with little trinkets and furniture she found at second hand shops, but it was not good apartment. There were holes in the ceiling she had sealed up with plastic, the floors were rotted wood with odd stains and scuffs. The walls were painted in a dreadful olive drab, with more holes and scuffs abound. The door had to be hipped repeatedly to open and again to close. The lock was loose and Rowena had to fight with it for ages before it would lock and unlock. The windows were cracked, sealed with duct tape. It was, in a word, a dive.

But John commented on none of those things. He complimented her collect of crystals, dream catchers, statues of the Goddesses and Gods, the once fine Persian rug she had found a yard sale and was working on restoring. He even said her second hand couch was very comfortable when he took the seat she offered.

She made them tea, and they talked. The hours flew by. John even cooked for them - “Least I can do after inconveniencing you,” he said happily – and made a wonderful plate of spaghetti. They had met just before lunch and now it was well passed dark. They turned on the ancient television she had picked up at another yard sale, and watched an old film starring Cary Grant. She did like Cary Grant.

It had just gone passed ten when John finally left. He had smile shyly at her, offering her his number. “In case you need a ride, or help fixing this door. In fact, if you aren't busy tomorrow evening, I could swing by and fix it for you.” She had gratefully taken the number, and agreed to have him return the next evening at five. “I'll cook again, if you like,” he said, giving her that shy, sweet smile.

And so began one of the greatest friendships in Rowena's long, interesting life.

John, it turned out, was fascinated by her work. “You really read palms? Tarot cards, all of that?” he asked one night, some weeks into their friendship. John had become a regular fixture at her apartment. He came over most nights, and they often sat up into the wee hours just talking and learning about each other. 

“Yes, Sweetling,” she said, her new nickname for John rolling off her tongue with ease. He truly was a sweet man. He had even stopped the day before to help Mrs. Emerson three doors down help get her cat out of a tree. How he was involved in such a violent sport was beyond Rowena. It seemed to her he didn't have a mean bone in his large, attractive body. “Would you like me to do a reading for you?”

John had enthusiastically agreed. First she read his palm - “Oh such a long life ahead of you. I dare say you will reach a hundred!” then his cards - “A change is coming into your life. New friendships, new sights to see, perhaps even a move.” He had been enthralled, stopping her a few times to take notes on what she predicted in his phone. He did not ask for readings after that, but did come to her stall a few times to watch her predict for others. Rowena woke every day excited, smiling as her cheap phone pinged with John's usual greeting of, “Good morning sunshine!”

Rowena found herself happy. Even though she still lived in her dumpy little flat, even though she made only enough to scrape by (she refused the money John offered her – despite her self serving nature, she just couldn't see herself taking money from someone that so genuinely made her life happy) she had found something she had always craved: a true and genuine friend.

So when, four months into their friendship, one day Rowena woke to find no message of good morning on her phone, she felt a sudden chill of worry. She texted him, hoping he had simply gotten busy with some PR companion he was working on for his wrestling league. The hours passed. She went out, made her money for the day, checking her phone at least once a half hour. There was no reply, no answer when she called. By the end of the day, Rowena was heartsick. Perhaps he had grown tired of her, perhaps he had moved on. Maybe Rowena had been a simple distraction, perhaps even a charity case. She began to get angry, to resolve herself to not speak to John unless he called with a very good excuse.

Two days went by without a word. Rowena checked the news to see if John had perhaps been in some horrible accident. There was nothing. She was furious, beyond angry and more than a little hurt. Well, she decided, if John didn't think she at least warranted a call explaining his sudden and complete absence, she would not spare him another thought or another moment of her energy. She was at her stall, doing a reading for a lovely, shy young woman wanting to know if her fiance was truly the man for her (he was, much to Rowena and the young woman's delight), when her phone went off. It was John's number. She silenced it, returning to her reading. She almost didn't listen to the message after the young woman went happily away, but caved at last, hoping to at least get an explanation.

“Rowena,” John's voice said, sounding tired, thready. “I'm so sorry, Rowena. I...I'm in the hospital. My managers have kept it under wraps – they didn't want to start a media circus. I collapsed at practice. I've been unconscious since Thursday. I just woke up. Please come see me, Rowena. I'm so sorry I missed our visit. I just...I want to make sure we're still friends.” He went on to give the address of the hospital and his room number. Rowena closed up her stall, and took to her feet. She had enough money for a cab – she wouldn't be able to get one back to her apartment, but that was all right – and hailed the first yellow she saw. She gave the address, her heart lodged in her throat.

She ran in and took the first elevator. She went to the nurse's desk and asked for his room. “Now you have to be on his visitor's list,” the nurse said, giving her gypsy clothes a shrewd look. “Are you on his list, ma'am?”

Rowena rose to her full height, giving the woman her best imperious glare. “I am Rowena MacLeod, and I assure you, I am on his visitor's list.” The nurse looked unconvinced, sniffing in disapproval as she looked over the visitor's list. Her eyes blinked in surprise, giving Rowena a shrewd look. 

“Do you have ID?” the nurse asked, her suspicion and dislike apparent on her ugly, piggish face.

Rowena was livid. Were she comfortable enough with her safety to use her powers, she would have turned the ugly sow into an actual pig. As it were, she handed over her state issued (fake, but convincing) ID. The nurse sniffed again, handing it back. “Three doors down that hall. You'll have to show your ID again to the guards at the door.”

Rowena held her head high, letting out a sniff of disapproval herself before walking as quickly and regally as she could down the hall. She looked over her shoulder, glaring at the nurse who was gossiping with another, motioning down towards Rowena. The urge to hex the nurse was nearly overpowering, but her worry for John was much more pressing.

The guards took her ID and ushered her in. At least they didn't give her judgmental glares. John was laying in bed, looking pale and tired, tucked under hospital blankets. “Oh, my wee Sweetling,” she tutted, going instantly to his side.

John's eyes opened slowly, tiredly. But he smiled at the sight of her, grabbing her hand as she came close to him. “I'm so sorry, Rowena,” he said, sounding so sincere. “I missed our visit.”

“It's all right,” Rowena shushed, running her free hand over his forehead. He had a bit of a fever still. “Tell me what happened? What has you trussed up like a Christmas goose?”

John smiled, looking relieved. “I have an infection in my stupid kidneys. I really have to cut out the energy drinks. I let it go too long and it knocked me out. They're going to send me home tomorrow if my fever breaks.”

Rowena nodded, looking relieved. “An infection knocked you out for two days?”

John looked embarrassed. “Truthfully, I haven't been feeling well for a week or so. I fought it off with Tylenol, but it got the better of me. I was running such a high fever when they brought me in that they put me in a medically induced coma for those two days. I only just got roused from it about a half an hour before I called you. You..you were the first person I wanted to call.” He flushed a bit, looking up at her with such earnesty. 

Rowena felt her own cheeks flush. “Who will take care of you when you go home, John?” she asked, suddenly very anxious over the thought of him being on his own.

John gave her a small smile. “I have maids and guards and staff. I'm sure they'll take care of me just fine.”

Rowena bristled. “Nonsense,” she said sharply. “I'll come along with you. I'll nurse you right back to health.”

John's eyes widened. “You would do that?” he asked, sounding almost childlike in vulnerability.

“I insist,” she said in that sharp, sure way of hers. “I'll stay the night here. I'm sure the nurses can find me a nice cot to sleep on. We'll go to your home tomorrow – or mine if you wish – and I'll stay until you are well again, Sweetling.”

John smiled brightly, his face lit like the morning sun.

* * *

Rowena knew, logically, that John was well off. He was, after all, a celebrity of some success. While she had never followed wrestling, she had seen John on commercials and the occasional poster in a shop. She knew he was famous, and thus would have a very comfortable home and lifestyle. She had no idea, however, that he lived in an absolute mansion. Rowena had begun to wonder about John's house the moment his fine, Italian car (completely different sports car than the one he usually drove) was pulled up the hospital gate. It was driven by a chauffeur, with the back seat totally in leather, a TV mounted to the seat up front, a cooler full of water in the foot well. The windows were tinted, and there were nice speakers in each door that would no doubt blast music if John so wished it. They were silent for the ride, John's head leaning tiredly on Rowena's offered shoulder. She had an arm around him, rubbing soothingly on his neck. He was drifting in and out of sleep, utterly at ease in her embrace.

The house itself was massive. The car stopped at a gate, where the chauffeur put in a code on his mobile phone. It slide open easily, quietly, leading them onto a winding drive lined with hedges and well maintained topiaries. Rowena felt a lump in her throat, staring up at wonder at the absolutely huge estate the car pulled up to. It was an old colonial affair, painted white with green shutters, with sweeping lawns, willow and magnolia's simply everywhere. Rowena alighted quickly, shooing away the servants as she helped John out of the car. There was a wheelchair waiting, and in a testament to his obvious exhaustion and illness, John took it without complaint. Rowena again shooed the servants away, choosing to push John herself. He was heavy, but the wheelchair and a bit of push from her magic (only a smidge – not enough for anyone to pick up on) she managed to get him in through the massive, solid mahogany front door.

The foyer was simply beautiful. There was a sweeping staircase, like something from Gone With The Wind, with marble floors, a lovely table laid out with fresh flowers and pictures of who Rowena assumed were John's friends and family. There were expensive rugs, tapestries hung on every wall, with tasteful paintings of dogs on the hunt, trees swaying in the wind. The room was beautiful, bringing tears to Rowena's eyes. “You're home is lovely, John,” she murmured, smiling down at him when he turned to look at her. It was so odd, yet it suited his kindness and gentle nature. They went to the edge of the stairs, John rising on slightly shaky legs.

“I should have put an elevator in when I refurbished the house,” he said as they carefully made their way up. Servants followed, in case John would falter. They had no idea Rowena was supporting him with that same, subtle magic. She would not let John trip, wouldn't let him fall. “But I couldn't do it. I wanted the house as close to its original condition as I could get it.”

“Oh I agree,” Rowena said encouragingly. “It's a beautiful estate.”

She got John to bed, and went about arranging him some dinner. There was a chef, who at first was not keen to have her in the kitchen. She quickly won the elderly woman over, suggesting old world cooking that would shore up John's immune system. By the end of lunch preparations, she and the chef were on first name terms. Rowena brought up the delicious meal, sharing it happily with her friend. John laughed as Rowena told him about one of her customers – an elderly woman convinced her husband was a cheater and a swindler. When Rowena had confirmed her suspicions, the old woman had gleefully regaled her with the vengeance she planned to wrought on the old geezer. Rowena had felt a kinship with this wronged woman and had even suggested a few things to make the old man's life a living Hell.

“Remind me to never get on your bad side, Rowena,” John said after his laughter had died away.

She patted his hand. “You could never be on my bad side, Sweetling.”

She left him after dark, taking his chauffeured car (at his insistence) to retrieve some clothes and her bathing necessities. The chauffeur had come up with her, keeping a remarkably stoic face as he took in her surroundings. He helped her with her bags (only two; she owned very little), and returned her quickly to John's side.

She was put up in a guest bedroom just down the hall from John's. She hung up her few clothes, put up her shower things in the bathroom. She had a little jewelry to lay out on the dresser, and had brought her favorite throw to put over the bottom of the bed. Her room was very fine – painted in soft yellows and pinks, with a four post bed at its heart. The bed was ever so comfortable – a vast improvement over the lumpy mattress at her own apartment. There were satin sheets, a fluffy, light comforter for chilly nights. The pillows were soft and fat, and felt like clouds under her head. She felt like a princess in this room, until she caught sight of herself.

During her friendship with John, she had gained back most of the weight she had lost in poverty. Her clothes fit a little better now, but they were still gypsy fair. Her long, flowing skirts had so many patches and hidden stitches where she had repaired the old garments. Her hair looked so mousy and drab in the boring old brown she had been forced to choose. Her skin was rather a bit dull, too. She needed some vitamins or something. She missed her magic, missed being able to keep herself up and her clothes beautiful. She looked rather like Cinderella. Maybe she felt a bit like her as well.

Rowena changed into her best outfit (mind, it was still second hand and not the most flattering of thing, but it was at least not riddled with holes and patches) and went back to check on John. He was watching a film, his face lighting up at the sight of her. He patted the bed beside him and she sat down, laughing as the film went on.

The next day was nice and sunny; not nearly as hot as the previous day. “We should go outside if you feel up to it,” Rowena suggested, looking out over his beautiful grounds. “We could have a picnic under that tree just there. Tea and sandwiches.”

John nodded, looking healthier today. “Tea and sandwiches sound great.” Chef Lucy made a wonderful spread, bringing it out onto the lawn for them herself. The older woman fussed, straightening out their picnic blanket, loading plate after plate with samplers for them. She patted John on the cheek, then Rowena, and went back into the house.

Rowena poured them the tea, delighted at the delicate cups Chef Lucy had chosen for them. They were fine china porcelain, with little blue and purple violets around the rim. John looked very bright today, happily chattering about all the things he wanted to do once he was cleared up of his infection. “I think I want to go back to Scotland,” he announced half way thru tea, giving her a mischievous look. “You will have to show me the part of the country only natives know.”

Rowena's heart skipped. “You want me to go with you?”

John gave her a look. “Of course I do. You're the best friend I've had in years.”

Rowena swallowed, feeling her eyes sting. “Oh, John. Y...You can't know what that means to me. I've been alone for...some time,” she said, worrying her hands, ringing her fingers. “I feel I must be honest with you. I...I had a son, you see,” she said, determined to tell him as much of the truth as she could without outing who and what she really was. “He passed away last year. We were not close. I have no other family, no friends. It's just...just me, you see.”

John reached over, taking her hand. “I'm sorry to hear about your son. I've lost people I love as well. Perhaps we can make each other a bit happier?”

Rowena smiled, her eyes still stinging. “I am happier now, with your friendship.”

John smiled, and Rowena was filled with a joy she hadn't felt since she raised Oscar.

* * *

The days passed. John grew well again, and when he was finally free of fever and infection, he insisted rather strongly that Rowena would not return to her flat.

“But I have a lease!” Rowena insisted, stunned as a moving van full of Rowena's second hand furniture and trinkets pulled up. There was very little in the van, but it meant the world to her that he would go out of his way to bring her things to his home.

“I paid them off,” John dismissed, checking his inventory to make sure everything was there. “Now, Rowena, I know you'll want your crystals and bobbles in your room. Is it all right if we store the furniture in the storehouse out back until I can get it recovered and refinished?”

“Recovered? Refinished?” she asked, staring at him in shock.

“Well, yes,” he said, giving her a look. “You chose those things, so I want to fix them up. Unless there are some pieces you don't want. I didn't have that awful mattress brought here, but I did have the bed frame and headboard. If there is anything you don't want, just say so. We'll take them to Goodwill.”

Rowena stared at her friend, and without any warning, she burst into tears. She felt so much – joy at having such a wonderful friend, and surprisingly enough; guilt. Guilt that he could never know about her magic. Never know about the people she hurt, the people she killed. She felt no remorse for her actions – her magic and her ruthlessness had kept her living after all, but she felt simply terrible for lying to him. It was a series of lies of omission, but lies none the less.

She had never felt guilty over lying before.

John simply pulled her into a hug, chuckling a bit. “I'm going to take care of you, Rowena. You're a true friend, and I love you for it.”

* * *

Rowena took to John's life with surprising ease. She still went to her stall and made her own money; but now that money went to getting her clothes and shoes and new shower supplies. She stood in the store one day, looking at the hair dyes (her roots were beginning to show), her hand hovering over the brown boring dye she had become accustomed too. Beside it was a bottle of stripper and a few feet away, the same beautiful red of her natural color. She lifted the ends of her hair, staring in disdain. She knew it was a risk, knew that it might bring misfortune on her, but she...she missed herself.

She took up the stripper and the red dye, her heart in her throat as she checked out. She made her way back to John's home – now, her home. John was out doing some magazine shoot, so it was the perfect time. She took a long bath, stripping and re-dying her hair as she went. By the end of her bath, her hair was as beautiful and vibrant as it had been. The shade was not completely right, but it was very close. She could easily let it return to it's natural color now.

John came in some hours later. She had the tea things laid out, and was standing on a step stool to try and reach a special blend of tea she had stashed up above the fridge. Chef was off today, as were most of the servants. “In here, Sweetling!” she said after her called for her.

John came in, freezing in his step. She turned, smiling warmly at him. “I'm trying to reach the Black China. It's too far – I'll need a bigger step stool or to grow about five inches taller.” John swallowed, staring at her in a long, dazed way. Rowena rolled her eyes, turning on the stool to face him. “Have you never seen a woman with red hair before, John?” she teased, her hands on her hips.

“It, uh, it suits you,” he said, swallowing again as he walked to her. He still had that dazed look, his thick fingers twining in her hair. “Is this your natural color? The brown didn't fit you as well.”

“Near as I could get from a bottle,” she smiled, thoroughly enjoying his off balanced manner. “I tried the brown for a change. Got sick of it rather quickly. Felt naked without my red hair.” She gave him a wink.

“Y-Yeah,” he stuttered, clearing his throat. He looked to the cabinet she was trying to reach. “You need that tin?” he asked, pointing to it.

“Aye, I do,” she said, assuming he would reach it for her. Instead, he put his hands on her waist, lifting her the five additional inches she needed. She let out a surprised laugh, and grabbed it, giggling as he sat her down on her stool. She stepped down lightly, taking his offered hand. He was still staring at her, his eyes roaming from the top of her head to her sandaled toes.

“You look very good in blue,” he said, clearing his throat and looking completely embarrassed.

“Thank you, Sweetling,” she said, going about making their tea. “Shall we take it on the lawn?”

John nodded, giving her a shy smile.

* * *

December crept up on them quickly. Rowena had lived with John for going on three months, and they were truly the happiest months of Rowena's life. There were no sign of demons, Winchesters, or anything supernatural coming along. Rowena kept her red hair, even began to cast little spells that used and expelled very little energy. Rowena found and put up all the Christmas decorations in John's home, laughing in delight when he came home to find the tree lit and glowing merrily beside the fireplace (it was an electric fire of course; Florida was far too hot for a real one).

“I have nothing planned for the next two days,” John announced at dinner, giving her a mischievous smile. “I think some Christmas shopping is in order.”

Rowena happily agreed, never one to turn down a chance to shop. They went out early the next day, walking down the row of shops, stopping in to examine any little thing that struck their fancy. John, ever the gentleman, carried all their bags and boxes (an amazing feat with the amount of nice things Rowena was finding for the staff). She may or may not have cast a few minor spells to make their packages lighter. They went back to the car at least four times to drop off their prizes, before they went in for a nice lunch.

The cafe was festively decorated, with employees that seemed to actually enjoy their jobs. The food was fantastic, and the company even better. Truly, Rowena had never been happier.

She should have known that it wouldn't last.

After lunch, they went back to their shopping. They had just gone into a little book shop where Rowena had found some wonderful lore books (and a few very nice recipe and gardening tomes as well) when she spotted them. The Winchesters were in that very book shop, their pet Angel following behind like the well trained dog he had become. Rowena's stomach dropped, the color rushing out of her face. John noticed at once, following her gaze. He looked confused, staring at the trio of men who were crowded around a particularly obscure spell book.

Samuel was the first to look up, his eyes fixing on her. He nudged Dean, who looked up next. Castiel noticed the brothers' wandering attention and looked their way. Rowena swallowed hard, praying with all her might that the boys wouldn't simply go on the attack.

“Rowena?” Dean asked, his face a mask of shock and disbelief. “And...John Cena?”

Rowena swallowed, instantly cloaking herself in her usual confidence. “Well well, if it isn't the Wee Winchester's and darling Castiel?” she asked, keeping her voice light. “I haven't seen you boys in ages. John, this is Dean, his brother Samuel, and their friend, Castiel. They were...friends of my Fergus.”

Samuel and Castiel made somewhat disgruntled faces at being labeled Fergus's friends, but Dean seemed to not mind. He was looking at John in a most curious way. John stepped forward, somewhat shielding her as he offered his hand to the elder Winchester.

“It's nice to meet you all,” he said, shaking each of their hands.

Rowena put her hand on his arm, forcing herself to put on a winning smile. “Now, it has been nice seeing you all again, but we really should be on our way.”

“Hang on, Rowena,” Dean said, giving her a calm sort of look. “We should...catch up. We lost touch for a long time.”

Rowena's stomach dropped, but she appreciated the discretion Dean was showing. He could have outed her then. “Yes, of course, Dean,” she said quietly, giving a bright smile to John. “Would you mind terribly if I went off with the boys for a bit? I'll be home soon, I promise.”

John looked concerned, but left with a quick peck to her cheek. Rowena felt affection swell up inside her, sending her heart fluttering in a most unfamiliar way.

Dean was simply looking at her, the normally gruff Winchester examining in her a most thoughtful manner. “Well. You boys all look as tall and healthy as ever,” she said, hoping beyond hope to get thru this encounter without being attacked, or worse – roped into one of the Winchesters' misadventures.

“Rowena,” Samuel said, sounding a bit awed and a bit irritated all at once, “you're supposed to be dead.”

“So are you about a hundred times over if memory serves,” she sniffed, picking up the nearest book at random and began to flip thru it. “Now, I am out with my friend trying to do some Yule shopping. Can we get to the point of you miscreants interrupting my day?”

“Friend?” Sam asked, his expression dubious. “You and John Cena are friends?”

Rowena bristled, snapping the book closed and replacing it on the shelf. “Yes. Friends. I am...retired from the world of the supernatural. I run an honest business, I do an honest trade. I have made friends. I do not cause mischief or upset. I do not even use my magic but the barest of times.”

“A wise plan,” Castiel said in a rasping voice. “No doubt you're still being hunted.”

“Indeed,” Rowena said primly. “That, gentlemen, is why I wish to keep this encounter brief. Now, if you have some obscure manuscript you need translated, I'll be happy to help. A spell crafted – I'll write it out for you. I will not involve myself with you further than that. If you have no need of me, I shall be on my way to rejoin my friend.”

Samuel and Castiel shared a look, before glancing at Dean. Dean's expression was blank, his eyes hard chips of green glass. “You know Crowley is dead?” Dean asked after a moment.

Rowena shifted her weight. “I am aware that my son is dead. I assume Lucifer finally grew tired of his meddling and did away with him as he tried to do with me.”

Dean shook his head just a bit, his unblinking stare focused on her. “He sacrificed himself to save Sam and me. He...saved the world, actually. I just thought you should know that.”

Rowena felt her eyes wide, felt an odd lump grow in her throat. “Oh,” she managed, finding herself suddenly wringing her hands. “Did...did he suffer much, do you think?” she tried to ask casually, finding herself uncharacteristically saddened at the thought her son might have died in pain.

“No,” Dean said simply. “It was quick.”

Rowena nodded, clearing her throat. “Well, this catching up has been lovely, but I really must be off. Do you require my translating or spell work skills, or may I go?”

Samuel opened his mouth to answer, but Dean cut him off. “No, I don't think so. Just stay on the straight and narrow, Rowena. Here,” he reaching in his pocket, pulled out a receipt from a gas station and scribbled down his number. “In case the demons find you or something.”

Rowena took it, giving him a shrewd look. She tore the end of the receipt off and took his pen, scrawling her own phone number, handing the pen and the scrap back to him. “In case you do need me to translate. And I am truly retired. I am...happy with my life.”

Dean gave a terse, quick nod, grabbing up the book they had been looking for. “Merry Christmas, Rowena.”

“Happy Christmas, boys,” she said, feeling subdued. She turned on her heel, her hair bobbing behind her as she quickly made her way to the door.

“Rowena,” Dean called out. Rowena stopped, cringing as she turned, wondering what the elder Winchester could want from her now. “Take care of yourself. And...John Cena, I guess.”

Rowena gave him a quick nod and made her exit. John was just outside, leaning against a lamp post. He looked relieved, then gentle when she took his arm. “I think I need a good drink. Shall we go to the pub down the street?” she asked happily.

John smiled, his face brighter than the noon sun. “I'm buying.”

“Of course,” Rowena quipped, laughter bubbling up in her chest.

John leaned down and kissed her cheek again. Rowena leaned against his arm, and truly, in that moment, felt joy.

_**The End** _

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Natalie P. Weingarten for sharing the picture that spawned this little one shot. I came across the funny take on the old Elf On the Shelf (Rowena On John Cena!) on the Destiel Port: Prompts, Fanficitons, and such; I was so overwhelmed by the very idea of a Rowena/John friendship, I couldn't help but write this.
> 
> I want to thank everyone that encouraged me to write this. Natalie, of course, Emileigh Lyn, Jacquee McDade, Jaxon Carman, Crys Headrick, Ema Popovski, and everyone who liked and laughed at my little idea.
> 
> ~Jess


End file.
